All He Needed
by FlamingSkies
Summary: Branson realised he'd lost his heart to the lovely Lady Sybil. Now all he needed was a sign from her that she might feel the same... Set during series one, leading up to the garden party
1. A Losing Battle

**This is my very first attempt at fan fiction - I felt inspired by these wonderful character created by Julian Fellowes. I own nothing (unfortunately).**

A LOSING BATTLE

Branson should not have been there. Now that the garden party was underway he wasn't needed; all of the guests had arrived and there was nobody else to collect from the station. It would be several hours yet before people were ready to leave and he'd be called upon again, so he should have been making the most of this quiet time to read the paper in peace up at the house while everyone else was working.

But instead here he was, lurking beside the marquee where tables had been set up to serve lunch, and searching the crowd for Lady Sybil. He hadn't seen her for three days now, what with all the errands he'd had to run for Lady Grantham and Mrs Hughes in preparation for the party, and he was desperate for even a quick glimpse of her.

It took just a moment to find her. She was standing in the shade of another marquee talking to a young woman and an older man he didn't recognise, and like every other time he saw her, he was taken aback by how utterly lovely she was. Just seeing the sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the way she tilted her head to the side while she listened intently, made his heart beat that little bit faster.

He knew it was futile to have these feelings about the daughter of an earl, and God only knew, he'd fought them for the last three months. But try as he might, it was a battle he was rapidly losing.

* * *

><p>Losing his heart to the aristocratic daughter of his employer was the last thing Branson could ever have imagined when he accepted the job as the Earl of Grantham's chauffeur. He was too busy worrying about whether he'd actually be able to do the job, given his deep-seated hatred for titled families and all they stood for.<p>

His family and friends in Ireland had thought him mad when he told them he was going to England to work for a member of the aristocracy, the very thing he despised so much. He had to admit his first reason for doing it was financial. He could earn twice as much money working for the upper classes in England as he could at his job in Dublin, and God knew, his family needed the money.

His mother had been widowed five years ago and without his father's wages as a clerk at the town hall, life was a struggle. Ma had been working as a cleaner and taking in some mending but the money she earned barely paid for the rent, let alone much else. His older brother Michael couldn't help out – he had his own family to support now that he was married and the father of two little girls. And although his older sister Teresa gave what she could, her wages as a maid did not go very far.

Branson knew it was up to him, as the next child in line, to help where he could. There were still five mouths at home to be fed, including his mother, and he was not going to let them go hungry.

And while he'd been sending money home for his mother he'd also been putting a little aside every week for his 12-year-old brother Danny, who was the smartest person Branson knew and deserved a proper education. Going to university had been out of the question for Branson, but if he could save enough money, hopefully it wouldn't be too late for Danny.

This was why he managed to swallow his pride to go and work where he'd get a decent salary. Plus, as Branson had told his friends, working for the aristocracy had another use; it would provide him with very beneficial insights into the workings of a class system he abhorred.

"You watch," he'd told his cousin Donal, who was horrified when he heard about Branson's new job. "When I go into politics I'll be able to talk with authority about how the aristocracy are and why it's so wrong. I'll have seen it first-hand. It will give me credibility, you wait and see."

Donal didn't seem convinced but Branson knew he was doing the right thing. He just would have to be careful to keep his temper and not let his frustrations about the class system get the better of him.

He remembered the day he'd arrived at Downton, and first seen his employer's home. The house managed to be both magnificent and obscene at the same time. He appreciated good architecture and this was a very fine building, with its honey-coloured stone and ornate towers. But it was downright wrong that this enormous edifice was home to just one family when in so many other places, his hometown of Dublin included, large families were living in one tiny room.

It was wrong that these people should have crystal chandeliers and shiny silver and fancy carpets and expensive paintings when so many other people could not afford to put food on the table. His previous employers in Dublin had been rich but nothing on this scale, and seeing the opulence in which the Crawley family lived often incensed him.

On his first day, as Mr Carson showed him into the library to meet Lord Grantham, Branson wondered if he had made a terrible mistake; if seeing the lives of the aristocracy up close would raise his ire so much he would find it impossible to do his job properly.

But to be honest, it hadn't been as hard as he expected. Of course he hadn't completely kept his political feelings to himself, he could no more do that than stop breathing. He'd let his interest in history and politics be known from that first day and to his credit his lordship had seemed to take having a socialist for a chauffeur in his stride.

And Branson had to admit, as much as he hated everything Lord Grantham stood for, he actually quite liked the man himself. In fact he was probably the member of the Crawley family – other than Lady Sybil of course – for whom he had the most time.

He thought his lordship treated his servants very fairly – you only had to look at the allowances he made for poor crippled Mr Bates – and he really did seem concerned about the welfare of the tenants on his land, judging by some of the conversations Branson had overheard after driving his lordship to visit them. If they had problems he would go out of his way to help – for example for several weeks he'd got Branson to deliver a daily hamper of food to one family, after the mother had badly scalded herself and was confined to her bed until her burns had healed.

He liked that Lord Grantham took a genuine interest in their wellbeing and he noticed that they chose to respect him because of the kind of man he was, not merely because of the title he had inherited.

He most definitely was not the snooty, arrogant, loathsome upper-class idiot Branson had always imagined members of the aristocracy to be. And that confused him a little. He realised he would have to revise his opinions slightly. While the aristocracy might be unfair and oppressive and just plain wrong, it didn't necessarily mean aristocrats themselves were.

One of the other reasons Branson had a bit more time for his lordship was that like Lady Sybil, he was one of the few members of the Crawley family to actually talk to him. Of course they hadn't discussed political topics like he had with Sybil, and their conversations were always brief, but there had been a number of occasions when the earl had asked about his family, or what he thought of England. And he did seem genuinely interested in what Branson had to say.

Of course that had all been before the dreadful night of the by-election count in Ripon. Branson had not been the earl's favourite person after Sybil was injured in the fighting that broke out; he was furious with the chauffeur for taking her to the count. Branson could not blame him; he too would have vented his fury at whoever he believed responsible for endangering someone he loved.

Lord Grantham still made polite conversation occasionally when he was in the back of motorcar – impeccable manners had been bred into the very bones of him – but he seemed much more wary of his chauffeur. And he had good reason to be cautious, noted Branson, much more than he could ever imagine.

What on earth would his lordship think if he knew how man driving him around felt about his daughter?

_He'd kill me,_ thought Branson. _In as well-mannered a way as possible_.

But chances were he'd never know. Nobody would ever know. Because despite the hundreds of different scenarios that played over and over in Branson's head, he would never be able to tell Lady Sybil how he felt. Chauffeurs just didn't go around declaring their love for the daughters of earls. He might as well just give up now.


	2. A Woman After His Own Heart

A WOMAN AFTER HIS OWN HEART

When he looked back, Branson realised he had been drawn to Lady Sybil from the moment he first saw her. It was hard not to be when she was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever laid eyes on. The eldest Crawley daughter, Lady Mary, was regarded as the great beauty of the family and to be sure, she had very fine features, but Branson thought her looks somewhat haughty and glacial, much like her manner.

Lady Sybil, on the other hand, had a warmth that radiated from her like heat from the sun, and beautiful blue eyes that twinkled with just a hint of mischief when she smiled. It gladdened him just to look at her.

But as beautiful as she was, it wasn't just her appearance that attracted him. It didn't take him long to realise how bright and spirited and thoughtful she was, and to notice that she took a great interest in the world and matters like women's rights. She had a spark that was missing in many other women.

He couldn't help himself; he'd given her pamphlets about the suffrage movement and talked to her a little about his political leanings. She'd seemed curious when he said he was a socialist and questioned him about what was going on in Ireland. It didn't seem to occur to her that it might not be entirely appropriate for a young lady like herself to discuss such matters with a servant and of course he didn't discourage her; he enjoyed their banter. After a short while their conversations became lively and sometimes a little heated, both of them passionate about the causes they believed in. It wasn't long before ferrying her to her to meetings of various committees and organisations was the highlight of his week.

Their talk drifted to other matters and he knew she had warmed to him when she let him in on the secret of the special dress she was having made. He took care to be loitering outside the drawing room window when he knew Lady Sybil would be making her grand entrance, and he chuckled with delight as she showed off the trouser-dress in front of her stunned family. Good for her, having the courage to shock them with something new and outrageous, he thought.

_Now there's a woman after my own heart_.

Of course he hadn't known then that she would end up owning his heart.

It was not until he held her limp body in his arms that terrible night in Ripon that the realisation he loved her had struck him like a blow to the chest.

As he'd carried her to the car he looked down at the blood streaming from her face where she'd hit it and he felt sick with worry. He was not an especially religious man but he couldn't help praying as he pushed through the crowd, cradling his unconscious mistress.

_Dear God please let her be all right. Please, she means everything to me. I love her._

He loved her. Of course he did. It should have dawned on him sooner. He loved her, and he couldn't bear to see her hurt or, dear God in heaven, to lose her.

In the car, as he drove through the fading light to Crawley House, he kept looking so often over his shoulder at her, slumped in the back seat, that Mr Crawley had to say, "Branson, I'm sure Lady Sybil is going to be all right. I think it would be best if you watched the road or we may all require medical treatment."

Once Mrs Crawley had tended to her she seemed much improved and it was an enormous relief when she walked out to the car from Crawley House, but his gut still twisted with worry as he drove her back to Downton Abbey.

He couldn't help but ask Lady Mary to keep him informed on how she was; as soon as the words spilled out he knew he'd crossed a line and her ladyship's chilly response to his request made him wonder if she suspected his feelings for her sister. But in that moment, he didn't care. He had to be sure Sybil was all right. He loved her.

The drama surrounding Lady Sybil was the main topic of conversation in the servants' hall that night and when Gwen told him that Lord Grantham had been heard bellowing throughout the house that he blamed Branson for his daughter's injuries, Branson felt his dinner churn in his stomach.

"You're for the chop then," muttered Thomas from across the table, his words spiked with malice.

Branson turned his gaze on the footman, determined to keep his face impassive. He wouldn't give that smug bastard the satisfaction of knowing how upset he was. Thomas of course would think his anguish was over the prospect of losing his job. He wouldn't understand it was the thought of losing Sybil that threatened to bring Branson to tears.

And then Gwen, who'd been in the corridor outside while Lord Grantham had berated his wayward youngest daughter, spoke again.

"Lady Sybil told his Lordship – actually raised her voice at him, can you credit it – that if he sacked you and you were gone in the morning, she'd never talk to him again. She even said she'd run away somewhere.

"It was just as well Mr Branson, I think she's saved you your job."

_She stood up for me,_ he'd thought, and suddenly his spirits soared. _She raised her voice to her father. For me. Why would she do that? Does she... might she… could it be possible that she feels something? That she cares about me too?_

The thrill of knowing Lady Sybil had taken his side had kept him awake in his bed that night. And the next morning it had helped him to keep his back straight and his chin up when he was summoned before Lord Grantham and given a thorough dressing down. He had taken the harsh words - _"you'd better not keep filling my daughter's head with your ridiculous socialist ideas, I won't have her corrupted, do you hear?"_ - without flinching. It didn't matter what the earl said, he was protected by the knowledge that Sybil had stood up for him. Could this mean that she might care… even just a little?


	3. Our Little Secret

OUR LITTLE SECRET

Branson left the library after the earl had vented his fury at him and went straight to the servants hall for a cup of tea. He ignored Thomas' nasty dig of "Still here then?" and sat at the table, the steaming mug warming his hands.

_You're only still gainfully employed because my daughter is insisting I keep you on_, his lordship had said. He'd fought the temptation to smile at the time, knowing Lord Grantham would see it as a smirk, but he allowed himself a smile now. _My daughter is insisting I keep you on. Insisting._

He was staring off in space, wishing he could have eavesdropped on the conversation between Lady Sybil and her father, when he became aware of a flurry of footsteps and everyone else getting to their feet. He looked up and there she was, Lady Sybil, standing in the doorway. He jumped up too, spilling his tea on the table.

"Yes, m'lady – can someone help?" asked Mrs Hughes.

"If it's all right, I'd just like a quick word with Branson," said Lady Sybil.

"Of course," said Mrs Hughes. "You may use my room."

Branson set his mug down on the table, and ignoring the curious stares of the other servants, followed Mrs Hughes and Lady Sybil to the housekeeper's office.

"Yes, m'lady?" he said after Mrs Hughes shut the door. For some reason he felt more nervous than he had been when he was summoned to the library by his lordship. He was pleased to see at least that she looked well enough after her injury the previous day, and the cut on her head was barely noticeable.

She stood by Mrs Hughes' table, fiddling with the lace trim on her dress and looking a little uncomfortable too.

"I hope this isn't inconvenient Branson but I needed to talk to you. I owe you an apology for what I did yesterday."

She, apologise to him? Now that he hadn't expected. "No, m'lady, I…."

"No, please Branson, hear me out. I do owe you an apology, and I shan't be able to live with myself until you have received it. I lied to you about where we were going yesterday, and that nearly cost you your job. I am so very sorry, and I hope you will be able to forgive me."

She looked so very earnest, so truly remorseful. And as absolutely beautiful as ever. He wanted to reach out and touch her lovely face, run his fingertips from the edge of her injury along the line of her jaw. Instead he balled up his hands and jammed them in his pockets.

"Honestly, there's no need to apologise your ladyship. I'm just pleased to see that you are all right. Are you feeling quite well?"

"Yes, I am, thank you. I have a very slight headache but I am otherwise well."

"Good. I'm glad," he said. He paused for a moment, then added, "I was worried."

She blushed and looked down at her hands. "So I understand. Mary has told me you appeared very concerned."

Now it was his turn to change colour. "I was m'lady."

"Well, that's very kind of you." She raised her eyes to him and smiled, and as he looked straight into those astonishing pools of blue, he felt he might drown.

It dawned on him that he'd never done this before, never stood talking to her face-to-face. Most of their conversations had been held in the motorcar, with him turning over his shoulder to speak to her. They'd exchanged the occasional word or two as she got in and out of the motor, and they'd talked briefly as he stood alongside her at the rally, but that wasn't the same as facing each other, like they were now, and looking each other straight in the eye. It unnerved him, more than a little, and for a moment he was lost for words.

Lady Sybil must have felt his unease, because she rushed to fill the awkward silence between them, her words tumbling out. "There is no need for concern, I'm all right now and hopefully Papa has not been too hard on you."

"No m'lady. He was very fair, considering."

"Considering?"

"Considering he thinks I'm responsible for corrupting you."

As soon as the words were out he wished he could snatch them back. The word corrupting was too strong; it hung over them the like the Sword of Damocles. "I, er, mean, corrupting you with my political ideas. Not in any er, other way." He'd really gone and put his foot in it now.

Sybil's eyebrows shot up, and she quickly turned to one side. Was she trying to hide a smile? She regained her composure and looked back at him. "Well that's nonsense. You haven't corrupted me at all. I'm perfectly capable of forming my own opinions. You've just… just helped to open my eyes a little, that's all. And I'm grateful for that."

_Grateful. Grateful is good. But is there more?_

"I'm glad to have been of help." He smiled and she returned it. That gave him courage to say something that had been weighing on him.

"And m'lady, I understand you spoke up for me in front of your father last night. I need to thank you for that."

"Nothing is secret in this house, is it?"

"No m'lady. His lordship was heard shouting."

"Yes, he did shout. And I shouted back. But it wasn't fair, blaming you, and I told him that."

He took a deep breath. "You told him you would run away if he fired me?"

"There really are no secrets in this house. Yes, I did. I had to – it was all my fault."

He glanced down at his feet, then back up at her. "Thank you."

The tension between them was so strong it was like a third person in the room.

"Oh, she said suddenly. "I nearly forgot. As well as apologising, I must also thank you carrying me to safety yesterday. I thought it might have been Cousin Matthew who came to my rescue but Mary tells me it was you."

He remembered how she felt, lying in his arms, and how he slid her unconscious body into the rear seat of the motorcar as tenderly as a mother lying a newborn in their crib.

"I don't know about coming to your rescue, m'lady… I just did what anyone would have done. I was glad I could. It was very….," he paused to choose his words carefully, "frightening, seeing you out cold like that."

"Well, I am truly sorry, and it won't happen again, I promise you. I will never put your job at risk again."

Something in her eyes told him that she really meant that. His heart beat a little harder in his chest.

"Well I don't think your father is going to be very happy about me chauffeuring you unchaperoned for the immediate future."

"Oh, he'll get over it. I have my committee meetings to attend and neither Mary nor Edith will want to come along to make sure I don't run off to any rallies. They have better things to do with their time."

"I think, m'lady, he wants to make sure I don't go spouting any more of my political poppycock at you." He grinned as he relayed this information.

"Did he say that? Political poppycock?"

"He did."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Well, Branson, as far as I'm concerned you can spout as much of your political poppycock as you like because it is the only interesting thing anybody ever says around here."

She moved past him to the door, and put her hand on the handle to open it. Then she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.

"And if nobody else is in the car, then nobody else needs know what we talk about. It will be our little secret. One that hopefully nobody else at Downton will get to know, for a change."

"As you wish, m'lady," he replied, trying to contain his delight.

"I do wish, Branson. Thank you."

She opened the door and swept out into the hallway. He stayed motionless for a moment, looking at the spot where she had just been, feeling her there still. Then he left the room, her words bouncing around his head.

_Our little secret_, she had said. _Our little secret_.


	4. Infatuation

INFATUATION

Unfortunately there hadn't been too many other opportunities for Branson to regale Lady Sybil with more of his political poppycock because just a couple of weeks later the Crawleys went to London for the season. Branson did not go; they always used a chauffeur called Mr Walsh in London who knew the city well and could easily navigate the busy streets.

Instead he stayed behind at Downton with Mrs Hughes and many of the maids, who all relished the chance for a quieter life without the family there. Not that they sat around doing nothing; Mrs Hughes saw it as a perfect chance to complete those chores that they couldn't get around to when the Crawleys were home and had her staff moving beds to clean underneath them, taking down paintings to wipe down walls and even removing every book in the library, one by one, to dust behind them. The house was spotlessly clean.

While the maids worked until their hands were rubbed raw from scrubbing and their backs ached from bending, Branson frittered away his days trying to look busy. Most of the time he was only needed to run errands for Mrs Hughes, and he could go for several days without even cranking up the car. His services had been offered to Mrs Crawley and cousin Matthew but Matthew said he was perfectly happy to ride his bicycle and take the train, while Mrs Crawley only used him a handful of times to go to Ripon. He spent a few hours every day working on the motorcars but that still left him with time on his hands. He'd cleaned the garage until it was so immaculate you could eat your dinner off the floor and even polished all his tools until they gleamed. Branson was so bored he thought he might go mad.

The only thing that kept him truly occupied was thinking of Sybil but he feared that might also drive him mad.

He pictured her in London, dressed in all her finery and surrounded by crowds of young men, all fawning over her. Images of her dancing, laughing and chatting with the sons of earls, dukes and viscounts made him feel ill.

It was not fair that they could dance with her, talk with her or flirt with her simply because of the circumstances of their birth, when he could not. What he wouldn't give to be able to take her in his arms on the dance floor.

When thoughts like this consumed him he would get up and pace the floor. It was totally ridiculous, this overwhelming infatuation. What was it his ma had said to him once? "Oh Tom lad, you've too much passion flowing in your veins for your own good."

And it was true, there were so many things that fired him up, like social injustice and inequality; the unfairness of the class system and British rule, and his determination to play a part in changing things in Ireland for future generations. But it had never occurred to him that one day the most intense passion he would feel would not be for a cause, but a woman.

Oh, of course he'd always liked the girls and they liked him too. He'd never been short of feminine attention and he knew how to smile at the girls in a way that would make their skin blush pink. He'd had his fair share of flirtations and more than a few kisses from a handful of girls in Dublin. And there had been one, Brigid O'Grady, with whom he had stepped out for a while.

But he'd have never called himself a romantic; and could not have previously imagined falling desperately in love. He'd always expected that one day he would simply meet a pretty girl who shared his views on life and was prepared to support him in his political ambitions, then he'd court her and marry her, and that would be that.

But he had not reckoned on Lady Sybil Crawley. Yes, she was a pretty girl who shared his views but really she was so much more than that. She was thoughtful and funny and passionate and kind, and she cared about the same things he did. She was the sort of woman he could easily imagine spending the rest of his life with, but courting her, then marrying her, was impossible. Any kind of relationship between them – a friendship even – was out of the question and knowing that was like a blow to his heart.

Thinking about the kind of man she would be allowed to marry made him feel ill, and also angry. He couldn't stand the thought of her with one of those pompous upper-class twits. But he knew it was inevitable that was the kind of man she'd end up with.

One evening, as he sat in the hall with those servants still in residence at Downton, talk turned to Lady Sybil, and how her season might be going.

"She'll have no shortage of suitors," said Gwen. "She's so pretty, Lady Sybil, and nice with it. They'll be lining up to dance with her."

"Do you think she'll come back with a beau?" asked Daisy.

"I would be surprised if she didn't," said Mrs Patmore.

"Oh, do you think she could end up being married before either of her sisters?" The prospect excited Daisy.

"Now that would be a turn up for the books," said Gwen. "Whatever would Lady Mary and Lady Edith say to that?"

Branson got up from the table and pulled on his jacket. He wasn't going to sit around listening to this speculation. A sour taste hit the back of his throat as he thought of Lady Sybil getting married.

"Are you turning in early Mr Branson?" asked Gwen.

"I am," he said. "I'll bid you a good evening."

On the way back to his cottage alongside the garage he scuffed his feet through the gravel. They were right, there was a very good chance Sybil would come back from London with a beau, and he'd just have to accept it.

He was deluding himself if he thought there was any chance that she might care for him as he did her. At most she might like him, and enjoy talking to him, but it would never be any more than that. And if ever it was, if there was a gracious God in heaven smiling down on him and making his dreams come true, and she did actually love him back, then it could still never happen. He was a servant, a member of the lower class. She could never be his – her father would never allow it.

Maybe he should just get away, find another job and put all thoughts of her out of his mind. Staying at Downton was only serving to torment him. He'd be better off never seeing her again.

Furious, he yanked open the door to his cottage and slammed it shut behind him.

_Face the truth Tom, you've no hope with Sybil. Give up. Forget her._


	5. Idle Hands

IDLE HANDS

Three weeks before the family were due back Mrs Hughes came to him one afternoon while he was sat alone in the servants' hall and asked, "Are you all right Mr Branson?"

He should have given a polite reply, but he couldn't help speaking the truth. "I'm bored, Mrs Hughes. I've nothing to do."

She smiled sympathetically. "I can see from the ledger in the library that you've read dozens of books in the past few weeks. Are you not enjoying having all this time to yourself? It'll be busy again once the family are back."

"I know, and it's been a wonderful opportunity to do lots of reading but I like to feel useful as well," he told her. "I'm not one for sitting around, unless of course I'm reading or talking. My ma always says the devil finds work for idle hands."

Mrs Hughes studied him for a long moment. "Your mother sounds like a woman after my own heart. Mr Branson, have you had any time off since you started here, other than your usual afternoons off?"

He shook his head.

"I think I will send a letter to Mr Carson in London to ask if you might have a week's holiday. It's due you, and you could use the time to go home to Ireland, if you wanted."

"Really?" Now this was a surprise. "I would like to see my family."

"Good. I don't think Mr Carson will be against the idea, as long as you are back before the family return. I will go and write now." She turned on her heel and left the room.

Branson tapped his fingers on the table. A trip home to Ireland might be just what he needed. It would be good to get away from this place and its overwhelming association with Lady Sybil, to get his thoughts in order. Maybe it would help him to get over her. To let go of this yearning that was slowly, bit by bit, eating him up.

* * *

><p>Coming home to Ireland was the best thing he could have done, thought Branson a week later, as he sat around the table with his family. It was as noisy and chaotic as always with everyone talking over the top of each other, but God it was good to be back. He hadn't realised how much he missed his family.<p>

He looked over at his mother, who was sitting at the head of the table picking at the remnants of her stew. It had been a shock when he first saw her; she'd aged so much and looked utterly battered by life. Her fair hair was now the colour of the winter sky and her face was etched with deep lines. When he considered that she was probably around the same age as Lady Grantham he felt an aching sadness; his ma looked old enough to be her ladyship's mother. Life had been hard enough before his father collapsed and died of a heart attack outside the council offices where he worked; since then his ma had struggled every moment of every day to raise their seven children. All of her troubles showed on her face and while she'd once been beautiful (he'd seen the photos from her younger days) she was now faded and thin and worn. Occasionally there was still a hint of liveliness in those bright blue eyes, the ones he'd inherited from her, but mostly he just saw weariness.

His brothers and sisters looked much the same. The younger ones had grown and now their wrists and ankles poked out of their sleeves and trouser legs. He would make sure he sent extra money for new coats this winter. They were desperate to know all about life at Downton Abbey. What was the house like? Did the Crawleys really drink out of golden goblets? Were the ladies dripping in diamonds? Did they beat the servants with whips if they stepped out of line and feed them on bread and water?

"It's obvious they've not feed you on bread and water," chipped in his brother Michael when his little sister Roisin had asked about what they ate. "It looks like you've been getting plenty of food," he added, prodding Branson in the stomach.

He answered their questions and talked about the family and tried to be as honest as possible. Yes, it was a ridiculous and disgusting show of wealth but for the most part they were pretty good people. He described the cars to his brothers and the Crawley women's clothes to his sisters, and for his mother's pleasure he talked about the kitchen, and all the implements Mrs Patmore had at her disposal. He tried not to talk about Sybil but it wasn't easy. Her name rested on the tip of his tongue and he was so eager to hear the sound of it he was tempted to use it conversation as much as he could. But he had to watch himself; he didn't feel comfortable with giving away his feelings, not at this stage. He didn't quite know how they'd take the news that he was in love with the daughter of an aristocrat.

He thought he'd done a good job of mentioning Sybil as little as possible but on his second-to-last night home he was in the kitchen drying the dishes with his older sister Teresa when she asked, "So, who is this Lady Sybil you keep talking about all the time? Is she pretty?"

Tom avoided his sister's gaze. They had fought like cat and dog when they were growing up, he and Teresa, but in recent years they'd become closer and there were times when he thought she understood him better than any of his other siblings, even Michael. She of all people would be able to emphasise with him about Sybil. She was a romantic, she read books by the Brontes and Jane Austen, and if anyone could understand the agony of unrequited love, it was Teresa.

But he also knew that she would be unable to keep quiet about anything he told her in confidence. Imparting a piece of sensitive information to Teresa was like having it printed on the front page of the Irish Times and he wasn't sure if he wanted to share these tumultuous feelings he had for Sybil not only with the rest of his family but also most of Ireland.

"I suppose she's pretty," he said, fighting hard to look nonchalant as he answered her question. "Although it's the oldest sister, Lady Mary, who's supposed to be the great beauty. I can't see it myself."

"And does this Lady Mary talk to you all the time like Lady Sybil does?" asked Teresa.

"No, she doesn't."

"Lady Sybil must like you," said Teresa. She was staring at him and the intensity of her look made his skin prickle, so he turned his back and acted like he was busy piling the clean plates on a shelf.

"Lady Sybil likes everyone, even the servants. She's very friendly. And I told you, she talks to me because she's interested in politics. And talking of an interest in politics, I'm supposed to be meeting Donal in the pub, so I'd best be on my way," he said, eager to escape her scrutiny.

If he thought he'd get some peace and quiet down at O'Reilly's he was mistaken. As soon as he walked in the door his cousin Donal began blathering in his ear yet again about him staying in England when he could be back in Ireland, fighting for independence.

"It must be one hell of a job to be keeping you over there," Donal, wiping the Guinness foam from his top lip. "I'd have thought you'd be dying to get back here to do your bit."

"I am," said Branson. "It's the money, you know that."

"Well there has to be a good reason keeping you there working for those bastards and I know you say they're good people but come on now Tom, how long are you planning to stay in England?"

"It all depends," said Branson.

"On what?" asked Donal.

_On the state of my heart, and whether the woman who has it wants me as much as I want her._

"On how much money I can make," mumbled Branson, taking a large swig of Guinness because he couldn't think of any other way to stop the lies coming out of his mouth.

It was true that the money helped but there was no way he was telling Donal that it was his feelings for Sybil that were keeping him bound to Downton.

Mind you, he thought as he walked home later that evening, since he'd arrived in Dublin he hadn't been thinking about her every minute of every day like he had been back in Yorkshire, and when thoughts of her did flood his mind, the ache was easier to bear. It was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To get over her? Maybe his plan was working.

His family threw a small party for him the night before he left and he danced with several girls, including Kathleen O'Farrell, who'd gone from being a scrawny young girl to a curvy woman in the time since he'd last seen her.

There were plenty of other fish in the sea, he thought as he whirled the comely Kathleen around his living room. He could come back to Ireland, and find himself a nice young woman who would love him regardless of his place in society. It might take some time but eventually he'd get over this hopeless infatuation and he'd forget Lady Sybil.

Yes, that's what he'd do. Stay at Downton a bit longer to earn some more money, and then return to Dublin and find himself an Irish bride. He smiled at Kathleen, and pulled her closer.

* * *

><p>He returned to Downton two days before the family were due back and everything was abuzz as the house was readied for their return. Mrs Hughes kept him busy running errands to the village and to Ripon, and by the time he was needed to drive to the station to collect them all he'd hardly had the chance to get excited about seeing Lady Sybil again. As he waited on the platform for the train his throat was a little dry in anticipation but otherwise he felt fine. It had all been a silly infatuation and he really was over the worst. He would probably look at her and wonder what all the fuss had been about.<p>

His lordship was the first to alight and he actually smiled when he saw Branson – obviously he had got over the business about the count. The countess was next, as elegant as always, and again Branson thought of the contrast with his poor, weary mother. Then came Lady Edith, and finally, behind her, Sybil. She was wearing a dark blue jacket and skirt, and fiddling with her hat as she walked along the platform. She did not look in his direction until she was almost upon him, when her eyes met his and she held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then she smiled, and he was lost.

One look at that soft skin, those shining eyes and he knew nothing had changed. He still loved her. He would always love her. His feelings for her were as much a part of him as the blood that pulsed in his veins. Loving her was as natural as breathing.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she walked past and then he turned to help the porter with the luggage. He would not be returning to Ireland any time soon.


	6. Political Poppycock

POLITICAL POPPYCOCK

It only took a few days before Branson felt like he'd never been away from Downton at all. Life quickly got back into its usual routine and those days in Ireland, when he'd gained such a clear perspective on how life might be, were already a distant blur in his memory.

He paid careful attention to everything that was being said about the family's time in London, listening for any talk of young men Lady Sybil had met during the season. O'Brien had been sharing all the news in the servants' hall, and he'd heard mention of Lady Sybil being very popular – much more so than Lady Edith, which obviously put her sister's nose out of joint. But there were no names given of any particular suitors.

Two days after they got home he drove Lady Grantham, Edith and Sybil to the Dower House and on the way the names of several young men were bandied about, including someone called James. His heart sank when her Ladyship said, "But Sybil dear, he was very taken with you."

"Mother's right," said Edith. "James was following you around like a puppy dog."

"Yes, but really, he was such a bore," said Sybil. "All he could talk about was hunting. He had no interest in politics or current affairs at all. I just found nothing to converse with him about."

Branson realised he'd been holding his breath and let out a huge sigh of relief. Good for her.

It was another week before he got to drive Sybil on her own and he couldn't help whistling as he cranked up the engine.

"You seem happy," she said as the car chugged down the driveway.

"I am m'lady."

_And you're the reason why._

"Was it very quiet while we were away in London?"

"It was."

"Is it good to have us all back again?"

"It is."

_If only you knew how good it is to have YOU back again_.

"So what happens at Downton when we're not here? I'm very curious to know."

"It gets cleaned, m'lady, from top to bottom. The maids worked very hard, Mrs Hughes saw to that."

"I can imagine." She fell silent and he resisted the temptation to look back at her. They were driving through the village now, and he needed to keep his eyes on the road. Finally he broke the silence.

"And how was London?" he asked. "Did you enjoy your season?"

"I did," she said, but her tone was not convincing.

"Really?" he asked, hoping he was not getting too personal.

"I did enjoy seeing so many of my friends and meeting new people, and it was fun being presented at court. I did go to some lovely balls…" she trailed off and was quiet again.

"But?"

"But a lot of it was quite tiresome. I got rather bored of making small talk. Nobody wanted to talk about anything interesting, like the suffrage movement. Well, they did briefly, but only to humour me. It wasn't like the discussions we have, Branson."

"Nobody spouting political poppycock then?" he offered.

She laughed, a lovely musical sound that warmed his heart. "No. I've missed your political poppycock."

_And I've missed you, more than you can ever know_.

He didn't say it. He wished he had the courage to but he knew now was not the right time.

Instead he asked her, "So there wasn't any talk then about what's happening with the third Home Rule act in Ireland?"

"A little, but then the men would change the subject. They don't think it's the sort of thing we women want to know about. It was infuriating. So tell me, what has happened?"

"Well m'lady…" he began. And they settled back into their usual routine, him enlightening her about political happenings; her leaning forward to listen, asking intelligent questions and chipping in with her thoughts.

Everything was right with the world again.


	7. The Sign

THE SIGN

Now, as Branson stood alone in the shadow of the marquee at the garden party, he marvelled at how being in love could make him feel by turns joyful and sick to his stomach.

Watching Lady Sybil deep in conversation, he wondered yet again what she would think if she knew that thoughts of her crowded his mind throughout his waking hours.

Every time they were together he looked out for a sign that maybe she thought about him too. He wondered, when she smiled as he helped her into the motorcar, if the way her smile lit up those beautiful blue eyes was more than simple gratitude for his steadying hand. Or did she smile at everyone that way?

Just last week, she had held his gaze for longer than usual as he opened the car door for her. He had felt his cheeks colour ever so slightly at the intensity of her look, and he pondered it all the way to Ripon. The way she'd stared at him, it was almost as if she was seeing him for the first time.

Had it suddenly occurred to her that he wasn't just a servant? Had she seen him as a man for whom she could have feelings?

He didn't know what she was thinking, and it was frustrating the life out of him. What he needed was some kind of sign. Something to show that he was more than just a diversion who kept her occupied on boring motorcar journeys.

He didn't really expect that she could possibly be in love with him too – surely he was the only fool to be blindsided by such strong emotions – but if there was just some indication that she thought of him as more than servant, a friend even, then that would make him content.

For the time being, at least.

* * *

><p>He was startled by the sound of movement behind him, and turned to see Mrs Hughes approaching.<p>

"Mr Branson, what on earth are you doing there?" she asked.

"I er, I was just wondering if you might be in need of some extra help, Mrs Hughes."

"From you?" A frown creased her brow. "Well nobody needs driving anywhere but I suppose, since you ask, would you mind going up to the kitchen and telling Mrs Patmore we're ready for the sandwiches to come down? I'd send one of the maids but they're all busy."

"I'd be only too pleased to do that for you Mrs Hughes," said Branson, relieved that she hadn't questioned him further about why he was loitering at the party. He walked away quickly, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder at Lady Sybil.

_I've seen her now, I don't need to look again,_ he told himself.

But as he reached the gravel driveway he couldn't help himself. He turned around for just one more quick glimpse of the woman he loved.

* * *

><p>After he'd delivered Mrs Hughes' message to Mrs Patmore, Branson went to Mr Carson's office and collected the newspapers his lordship had already read, then took them to the servants' hall. With everyone else at the garden party or in the kitchen he had the room all to himself. There was plenty of space to spread out the paper on the table without O'Brien glaring at him from under that vain mop of curls because she felt he was taking up too much room – he who didn't belong in the hall in the first place.<p>

He smoothed out the paper and started reading the main story, about further troubles in Austria, but the words made no sense. His mind was too full of other thoughts to process them properly. Eventually he gave up, and aware of his stomach growling with hunger, Branson folded up the paper and arose from his chair. If things weren't too chaotic maybe Mrs Patmore could be persuaded to spare a sandwich or two for him.

As he made his way towards the kitchen, a sharp, shrilling sound filled the corridor. Mrs Patmore and Mrs Bird stood at the table, their faces frozen in horror.

"Mr Carson's telephone's ringing," he said. "Isn't someone going to answer it?"

"I wouldn't touch that thing with a 10-foot pole," sniffed Mrs Patmore.

"Well, I will then." What was it with people? Why couldn't they welcome new things? He strode into the butler's office and picked up the telephone.

The voice at the other end asked if that was Mr Carson.

"No Mr Carson's busy, but can I take a message?"

He couldn't help smiling when he heard what the man on the other end had to say. "Of course I'll pass on your message. Thank you."

He grabbed his jacket from the servants' hall and buttoned it up as he made his way out of the house. He supposed he should go and find Gwen first; after all the news concerned her landing the secretary's job. But he knew Lady Sybil would want to be the one to tell Gwen, so it was her ladyship he looked for in the crowd. And of course he wasn't going to miss out on the chance to talk to Lady Sybil.

She had confided in him about trying to help Gwen become a secretary and his heart had swelled with pride in her even more. It was so typical of Sybil, going out of her way to help a servant. She admired Gwen for wanting to better herself, the same way she'd said she admired him for his determination to not always be a chauffeur. But how would she feel if she knew his ambitions included not only becoming a politician, but one day winning her love?

He spied Lady Sybil standing in a marquee talking to Lady Edith and the Mercer sisters, and he quickened his pace until he was running. He knew he should stand politely and wait for the women to acknowledge him but he couldn't help himself; he touched Sybil on the arm and said, "M'lady, I've got some news." Then he leaned close to her until he could feel her breath on his cheek, and he whispered, "Gwen got the job."

Her joy was immediate – her hands flew up to her face and she squealed. He knew she would want to find Gwen immediately and when she turned and raced off towards the serving marquee he went with her.

He realised it must look very odd, the earl's youngest daughter and the chauffeur running through the garden party but he didn't care. Her happiness was infectious and he wanted to be with her when she found Gwen.

They saw the housemaid carrying a tray towards a group of guests and ran over to her.

"Gwen, Mr Bromwich called - you've got the job," burst out Sybil, and it made him grin to see how thrilled Gwen was. She thrust the tray at another maid and in her joy, threw her arms around both him and Sybil.

Then Mrs Hughes' voice cut through their excitement.

"Something to celebrate?" she asked. The three of them spun around to face the housekeeper, and Gwen spoke, but Branson didn't hear a word she said. All he could think about was the fact that he was standing so close to Lady Sybil that their wrists were touching. He had no idea what possessed him, but he reached for her hand and took it in his.

As Mrs Hughes scolded, "There'll be time later for celebrating," the only thing Branson was aware of was Sybil's fingers threaded through his, and the scratchiness of her lace glove against his palm. For an instant her hand was limp in his and then he felt a finger twitch ever so slightly. And then, oh so gently, like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, she squeezed his hand.

There it was, the sign he had been waiting for.

He sensed Gwen move away and he wasn't sure if Mrs Hughes was still there or not, so focused was he on the fact that he was holding hands with Lady Sybil. He looked down at their entwined fingers and then so did she, before they both looked up and their eyes met. Hers were wide with surprise and something else – delight, maybe? He wasn't sure. All he knew was he never wanted to let her go.

He began to ask her if, by any chance, she might need to be driven somewhere later that day but only got as far as "I don't suppose…" before Mrs Hughes, who hadn't left after all, broke in. "Lady Sybil, her ladyship is asking after you."

Sybil looked back at him, her eyes briefly catching his before she slipped her hand free and turned away. He watched her go, still reeling from her touch, and a smile lit upon his lips. If that wasn't some kind of indication of her feelings then he didn't know what was. She liked him. She'd held his hand. _Squeezed_ his hand, for God's sake. It may not have been a grand gesture in other circumstances, but in their situation it was a huge declaration. She did feel something for him. She must.

He felt ridiculously happy, happier than he believed possible, and then he was brought back down to earth by Mrs Hughes. She gave him a stern but concerned look. "Be careful my lad, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart."

For a moment her words took the wind out of his sails. "What do you mean?" he asked, although he understood perfectly well what she was saying.

She said nothing else, but gave him a knowing look before she walked away.

Branson hesitated for a second, then pushed Mrs Hughes' words out of his mind and made his way back towards the house, his head down to hide the silly great grin plastered across his face. He wasn't mistaken, there _was _something there, Lady Sybil _did_ care. It might not be the same giddy love he felt for her but it was something nonetheless and given time, who knew what could happen.

Yes, it might seem impossible. Yes, it was too much to hope for. Chauffeurs and ladies did not fall in love and live happily ever after. But Tom Branson was nothing if not an optimistic man, and he was a persistent one too. He had something to aim for now, something to hope for. He would do everything it took to win her, and he would wait as long as necessary; she was worth waiting for.

Lady Sybil had given him a sign, and it was all he needed. For now.

**Thanks for the feedback - this has been so much harder than I thought and has really made me appreciate all the amazing writing talent on this site. Please keep the stories coming - now that Downton Abbey has just finished here in New Zealand I am bereft!**


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